


Notre projet

by catmanu



Category: Men's Football RPF, Political RPF, Political RPF - France 21st c.
Genre: Hair Kink, M/M, Phone Calls & Telephones, griezmanu, jerking off, pointless little fic but I love them so it's alright
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:27:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23066233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catmanu/pseuds/catmanu
Summary: "Our little project. How is it going? How are your curls doing, little cherub?”
Relationships: Antoine Griezmann/Emmanuel Macron
Comments: 8
Kudos: 32





	Notre projet

Even when using Telegram’s encrypted services, Antoine knows to be careful.

 _Let me know when you have time for a chat,_ his message says. _I’ll be available_. It is professional, inconspicuous enough. Were Emmanuel to show someone the message and confess that it came from Antoine Griezmann, this hypothetical person might not even believe him.

That’s what makes him fascinating, the complexity of the cherub. There is a certain maturity mixed in with the “Take the L” (he has learned so much!) and the propensity for calling him _dude._ While Antoine might not understand the word _discretion_ , he innately understands the concept.

His phone rings. Antoine is listed as “Raphael G” in his contacts, though as he’s often thought, even Raphael himself could not have dreamed up someone who looked like his _champion du monde_ —certainly not the sight of him in Barça’s yellow away kits. Emmanuel still has more than his fair share of doubts about Antoine’s new team, but at least the Barcelona colors don’t make him look like a candy cane with ringlets.

With a start he realizes his phone is still ringing, with the man he’s thinking about waiting for him to pick up. He feels more than a little absurd. Antoine does this to him.

"Heyyyyy," Antoine says. His voice is warm and tired. Emmanuel waits for him to correct his informality, but he does not. He longs to kiss the cherub’s soft, pink lips and masterful curls, or perhaps roll his pants down to expose his perfect legs and bite a bruise into one of the only places he can leave a mark without suspicion. He’ll settle for a truly mundane question.

“How was practice today?”

“Pretty epic. Did you see my golazo?”

“No, Antoine. I am often too busy to look at Barça’s Instagram account.” In fact, he has it open right now on his other phone, and indeed he’s marveled at the power of the cherub’s solid thighs many times today—how they power him through his successes and his celebrations, both of his in-game masterpieces and his practice, well... _golazos._

Emmanuel can picture the fake pout. “Well maybe you should _clear your schedule._ ”

And he heaves a heavy sigh—exaggerated, of course, for his champion’s benefit. “You are incorrigible, Antoine.”

“You totally know I don’t know what that means, Mr. President,” Antoine protests. “Does it mean…does it mean _bad?_ Are you going to spank me over the phone or something?”

Emmanuel’s cheeks burn; he feels disarmed by this suggestion alone. Antoine is…he’s _feisty_ tonight. “Am I _what?_ What’s gotten into you, Antoine?”

“Well, not _you_ ,” Antoine says. He can picture the pout again. “You haven’t been _into_ me in so _looooooong,_ Mr. President.”

“Oh, believe me, I’m aware,” Emmanuel says. He loosens his tie, then takes it off altogether. He is sweating along his hairline and down the back of his neck. “Ahem. Anyway. Our little project. How is it going? How are your curls doing, little cherub?”

“I, uh. I mean, I think they’re pretty okay.”

“ _Pretty okay?”_ If this is Antoine’s idea of an accurate description, Emmanuel worries for the future generations of French citizens. 

“Yeah. I’ve been, ummm…I’ve been looking a lot at the pictures you’ve sent me.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, of the baby angels and shi—and stuff. The ones you say I kinda look like.”

“And?” It’s not like Emmanuel to use such few words, but it is necessary to be patient with the cherub. His thoughts often move much slower than his legs. 

“It would be kinda fun to go see them in real life. The Sistine Chapel and everything. Ummmm…with you.”

“You’d like that, my angel?” Emmanuel’s heart is fluttering in a most unpresidential way; he thinks of all the romantic things someone might say to him and suddenly can’t conceive of anything more romantic than staring up at Michelangelo’s creations hand in hand with Antoine Griezmann. And if Francis I himself caught them in the act, well, all the better. Let him see the beauties of _laïcité._

“Yeah. You would teach me so much, I bet.”

“Oh, _Antoine_.” He waits for a moment to let Antoine hear how his breathing has gotten noticeably heavier; it’s not hard to notice a similar change in the cherub’s breaths at the other end of the call. “In an ideal world…I’d love to. I’d love to tell everyone…”

“Tell everyone what?”

It should not be as hot in the drafty Élysée as it is right now. He rolls up his sleeves. “Imagine…if the world were to find out that you were growing out your beautiful curls because of your president’s suggestion.”

Antoine clears his throat. “Mr. President…can I uhhhh…touch myself? While we talk?”

“You ask as though it were the first time you’ve ever done that on the phone with me.”

“Yeah, but like…we’re not talking about _sexy_ stuff right now, we’re talking about _art_ and shit. And stuff.”

Emmanuel smiles. “Your hair is more arousing than any of that, no? Yes, Antoine…of course you may touch yourself.”

“ _Sweeeeeeet_. Cause I kinda already am a little.”

“Oh.” Emmanuel hears Antoine sigh happily. “Are you naked, my cherub?”

“N—no,” Antoine says. “I have my underwear on. Ummmm, they’re boxer briefs. Pink with red hearts on them. I have my hand un—underneath, do you—” Emmanuel pictures how he surely looks right now—his eyes closed, his head thrown back, the unselfconscious ecstasy building. “Do you want a picture, Mr. President?”

“No, Antoine. Imagining you and hearing you is more than enough.” Of course, Emmanuel would love a photo of those curls, their project, spread out on the pillow and shining in the lamplight, of the inevitable wet spot on the front of his underwear, of his hand a hungry blur. But. Discretion, first and foremost. “Tell me, is it ever _exciting_ to you, knowing that I suggested you keep growing your hair long? That it’s so public, and yet a secret?”

“Y—sometimes. Yeah. I like—” Emmanuel can hear his hand moving. “I like knowing that you like me so much—Mr. President—that you—that you think I’m so _good_ …”

“You are more than good, Antoine,” Emmanuel breathes. Now he hears the cherub stop, spit into his fist, and continue. “You are a treasure. A masterpiece. Our nation’s pride, even to this day. Good is…I don’t know. Some of your illustrious new teammates.”

“What does ill—Never mind.”

“They are _good._ Good players. But you are something quite different.”

“ _Ohh…_ ”

“That is a reason why we’re growing your beautiful hair out, no? To set you apart. To show the world that you’re a work of—” Antoine is panting heavily. Emmanuel isn’t sure how they arrived at this point. He doesn’t think this type of conversation had been on his agenda for tonight, but it is hard to stick to agendas with Antoine. _Fuck_ agendas.

“Wow, I’m so _hard_ ,” Antoine gasps, and Emmanuel bites his lip at the crude statement. “For _you_ , Mr. President…”

“For me.”

“I want to last but, I d-don’t think I can…”

“There’s no need, little cherub,” Emmanuel encourages. “Do what you like. I’m enjoying every moment.”

Antoine whimpers and gasps and whimpers again, louder. Emmanuel closes his eyes and thinks of how he always looks in these moments, his mouth hanging open, his cheeks rosy, his abs heaving, wracked with pleasure. “ _Antoine,”_ he whispers.

Antoine’s whimpers fade out until all Emmanuel can hear at the other end is a shaky breath or two.

“Was that good?”

“Yeah, _fuck_ yeah…My hair’s all sweaty though.”

“How’d you know I was going to ask?”

“Just did. Shit, I need a headband or something next time we do this.”

Emmanuel smiles and stays silent for a moment, listening to his cherub settle down.

“Oh…by the way.” Antoine’s voice is sounding a little stronger. “Um. I was looking at the news, and I—I like what you said about Brexit.”

Hearing _Brexit_ come out of Antoine’s mouth, especially after what he’s just done, is a bit ludicrous. And thrilling. And, it must be said, arousing.

“Oh? What did I say about Brexit?”

“Uhhhh...some stuff.”

Emmanuel chuckles, but carefully. He doesn’t want to make Antoine feel bad. He is trying. “I’m glad to see you learning about the world, my angel.”

“Yeah. It’s pretty cool.”

“Perhaps you’ll vote for president next time.”

“Dude! Mr. President, that was cold! You didn’t have to drag me like that...”

“You’re right, my little cherub. I didn’t have to do...whatever you just said.”

“ _Drag me._ ”

“Drag you. I’ll make it up to you next time we meet, alright?”

“When’s that gonna be? I _miss_ you.”

“I miss you too, little cherub. We’ll figure it out. I’d like to check on our project. Our beautiful masterpiece.”

“Yeah? You’d really like my hair the way it is right now, Mr. President. It’s…so soft. And it blows in the wind and everything.”

“I know, my angel,” Emmanuel says. It is strange, so strange to feel such longing for Antoine—but also not very strange at all. “I see it on Barça’s Instagram all the time.”

“Dude, I thought you didn’t—oh, come _on_ , Mr. President! You were _fucking_ with me before when you said you don’t look at it!”

The delight in Antoine’s voice inspires Emmanuel to act similarly unrestrained. “You’re right, Antoine. I was. So, as I said before…I’ll make it up to you when I see you.” He drops his voice low. He is _thrilled._ “I’ll _fuck_ you instead, alright?”

Antoine snorts. “Mr. _President,_ ” he says. “You’re in—inc—What was that word again?”

“Incorrigible?”

“Yeah…that. You’re that.”

“Well, then, we must be good for each other, my little cherub.”

“Yeah,” Antoine breathes, softness and warmth radiating from him even through the phone. “I guess we are.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title, of course, is from [that (in)famous moment ;) ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=udBPW2rMQnc)


End file.
